Annie's Song
by Berouge
Summary: She has a second engagement with a man and his violin, in the park, at night. Sherlock's not going for it! ONESHOT!


AN- WTF! ONE SHOT!

The mistakes, they probably exist, they are not the things you are looking for.

**Annie's Song**

By: Berouge

* * *

><p>She was more than willing to give herself a pat on the back and a congratulatory foot rub because how many people could say they successfully slithered out of a room full of cops unnoticed? Probably a lot of people, especially when three-quarters of London's finest were sloshed beyond comprehensible reason as they sung along with almost overpowering gusto to <em>Journey's-<em> _Don't Stop Believin'_, which consequently meant they did not give a flying fig about little ol' her.

It was appropriate given Greg Lestrade's impressive promotion to Chief Inspector- he was replacing the fat, cranky man that Molly had met previously once before, and she had to say, Lestrade was a HELL of an improvement- especially after the excruciating circumstances of the last eighteen months.

Her dear DI had gone from a respected, if exceedingly unorthodox, member of New Scotland Yard, to suspended without pay after Sherlock's swan dive off the city's A list and the roof of her building, to this glorious moment of sweet revenge that coincided with NSY's very own consulting detective blasting back onto the scene with high profile arrests galore and a panicking throng of upper management that had nary a clue how to handle the overload of a surging public and ornery detective. The Brass were naturally tripping over themselves to reinstate Lestrade- because the DI had been right about Sherlock Holmes, could calmly navigate the gushing crowds, as well as being a damn fine cop whom they needed to take better care of, damn it!

If anyone deserved the recognition and pomp for a hard job well done- plus the hefty bonus- it was Greg Lestrade, and as happy as she was for him- and she most certainly was- the night was starting to get on and she needed to slide out soon if she wanted to make it to her next engagement with enough time.

Her opportunity presented itself fairly easily as Lestrade was tied up by merry revelers- that included a smirking John Watson with a pleased Mary at his side, and one severely disinterested Sherlock Holmes. Nobody else really knew who she was outside of her title as Forensic Pathologist from St. Bartholomew's Hospital and Research Center, who handled all of the dead suspects that the police found in crack houses and behind dumpsters during their working hours, so her presence would not be missed. She was also the only guest invited that wasn't a member of the NSY club or any of their direct consultants in stately Belstaff Millford coats.

She was just a friend that blurred into the back ground in this room full of personality and liquor. Nobody to really talk too or mingle with outside of Lestrade, John, and Sherlock- Mary was still highly tetchy concerning the lying to John about Sherlock being alive 'to do', and had yet to warm back up to her. Which was a pity…she liked Mary, and loved John, but talking to one would draw the other and an uncomfortable conversation would unavoidably ensue…

Tonight was about celebration and Lestrade, not her own personal B.S. and friendship issues she had cultivated along the way and drug to this proud moment.

Though, for the record, she was making a valiant effort to avoid the third one- because she was trying to keep things from being more awkward then they already were.

It was working so far.

So before she broke and made for freedom, she had kissed Lestrade on the cheek- or more like jaw as she short and in a hurry, when he had stopped by the buffet to top off his brandy- told him she was bursting at the seams in happiness, and then booked it for the door to the ladies.

She changed into her favorite pair of purple flats that went with her outfit and stuffed her cream high heels into her bag, before slinking down the deserted hallway that echoed with the distant sounds of hundreds of voices telling her to 'hold onto that feeling' at various plateaus of inebriated nirvana. Pushing out into the twilight of the city, Molly took a moment to enjoy the refreshing breeze and distant thrumming of London, before scuttling out onto Broadway. St. James Park was up ahead a few blocks and if she wanted to at least see them, she had to hoof it quickly.

She couldn't have asked for a lovelier fall evening if she tried. The summer heat was receding but the warmth retained in the cement jungle around her was enough to make a light jacket more than adequate for the situation. Which was fantastic as she wasn't wearing much more than her cocktail dress and flats.

André Rieu and his orchestra were in town, playing at the highly unusual venue of in the middle of the park, right off the lake, and she just so happened to have tickets! Who could guess that having extensive, not to mention highly useless discography knowledge on the band _Hansen_ would come in handy one day? Granted, she still found it odd that her modern hit radio station was giving away tickets to a concert like Rieu's- not that she was complaining as the man was masterful in his music selection and brilliant in his composition.

More importantly, her mother had loved his work, and by default, Molly did too.

If only mum could have been with her instead of her having to go alone.

If only she had been feeling better- enough that Molly could have taken her in a wheel chair.

If only…

If only there wasn't a man prowling behind her.

Spooked, Molly's brain stalled out for a moment as she tried to determine her next move. What a distressing discovery to be made when she was utterly unprepared for it.

Normally, hiking to a park, in the dark, was not an activity Molly ever participated in, so she felt like she could have been excused for her startled shriek at having a man stalking intently less than twelve paces behind her- she had caught his reflection in the windows of a parked car. Twirling around, Molly was prepared to stick her sharp nailed fingers into every orifice the guy had while screaming bloody murder at the top of her lungs when her brain finally caught up with her eyes.

She knew this man.

And he looked pissed.

"Sherlock! What are _doing_ scaring me like that?" She sagged hard on her feet, heart thundering boisterously along within the confines of her ribs as she scrutinized him in that coat of his- the sudden and incessant urge to run dancing along her skin.

He was intimidating, and the streetlight shining down on him as he passed through its beam did not help by blacking out the cavity of his eye sockets and pronouncing his cheekbones till he looked otherworldly and infinitely more dangerous.

She was now alarmed for an entirely different reason.

"What woman wanders these streets, at this time of night, by herself and postulates it as a splendidly sane idea?" His rejoinder was low and sharp as his long legs closed the gap between them, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

That intensity…he was too entrancing to be allowed.

Someone should arrest him before he ruined her mental image with his ghoulish temper.

Still a bit off balance at seeing him, Molly blinked owlishly. "A woman with a place to be?" She hadn't meant it to sound like a question- she knew why she was out there. It was just so surprising seeing him out there with her. There was a time when he wouldn't have be bothered with even looking at her as he spoke, let alone popping out of the hedges to heckle her about walking the streets. If Moriarty had clarified anything in her eyes- aside from being cynical of every man she ever planned to attempt to date. Ever.- it was Sherlock's selfishly protective side that she had watched flare into impressive attention all those months ago in the lab when he asked for her help.

"And where is that?" He cantered his head, steel blue eyes darkened beyond recognition narrowed in inquiry as he stopped directly before her, looming like the predator he was known for being.

My, he was volatile tonight.

Firmly tamping down the urge to shrink away from him, she pointed behind her. "St. James Park; I've got tickets to a concert I've been hoping to see." With that, she slinked away from him without further comment and continued onward, ignoring his rumbling displeasure at her physical evasion as he promptly fell into step beside her. "André Rieu is playing tonight." She added once it became clear he was tagging along.

"Who?"

She bit her lip as she rapidly contemplated something. Didn't he play the violin? She would have thought that maybe the name would ring some of his classically trained bells. If the man could remember some two-hundred various varieties of useless tobacco ash, a brilliant, internationally renowned musician should be a cakewalk. "He's a violinist and conductor- mum loved him and she took me every time he came to town." Sherlock scrunched his nose, but didn't say anything- shockingly- more as he ambled along at her side and she let a breath whistle from between her lips. "You don't have to come with, Sherlock, it's not that-"

"It's fine." He clipped her off, his hands still buried deep into his jacket as they turned into the park entrance.

"No, really. He's just up the way-"

"It's fine, Molly."

Her eyes screwed up as she darted a glance at his face. "But, Sherlock-"

"I'm not going anywhere, so drop that suggestion from your excuse queue." That scowl…it was so familiar it made her heart ache. It had been almost two years since she had seen it directed with so much purpose at her person, and the twinge near her heart only intensified. He had been home for a few months now, had come to the lab fairly regularly- for him- but he hadn't been overly…Sherlock toward her. He wasn't nice, he was never nice…but there was softness in his regard now; a gentler way of handling their interactions on his part.

It was weird.

But beyond that, it was deeply worrying.

Because having him ease off first, or help her with something wasn't how she remembered him before he left and it scared her to think of what happened to him- he never spoke about his 'dead time' with her, and she, out of respect for his silence on the matter, never asked. Things were different…and while her heart wished and hoped, she wasn't foolish enough to allow herself to leap ahead; to read into Sherlock finally just being grateful for what he had in terms of their friendship.

Her eyes sank to the pavement in front of them as she listened to his shoes click alongside hers, pondering things that were and were not. There was once a time when he could have cared less about the things she did inside the lab, let alone outside- popping down to the corner store for ice cream or toilet paper in the orange bathed streets was nothing new to her. She knew the risks- usually had a huge can of bear mace, a gift from Lestrade, which was several times more potent than regular mace- and illegal to boot, but so was rape so the criminal element and Parliament could suck a fatty- tucked into her palm. Alas, she had forgotten it at home that night in her rush to get to NSY headquarters after work- luckily for Sherlock, because this little story they were making would have turned out completely different.

Still, this…wherever this delayed chivalry was coming from- if indeed that is what it was, as opposed to him snagging the first viable excuse to bail on the party back at NSY- it was peculiar, strange.

Heartwarming.

She needed to focus on something- ANYTHING- else.

She thought about several conversation topics, but dismissed them all just as quickly. Chatting with him about the weather or the party just seemed like such a waste- he had a quota word count for fodder on 'useless interactions' and she was certain he had used up most of it at the party where he was forced to socialize and be respectful about it. Because John would throttle him if Sherlock douched out at Lestrade's promotion celebration- she knew, John told her earlier that evening while she was trying to determine how many cocktail wieners she could politely consume before she had a reputation amongst the bawdy Yarders.

The walk was barren of people, but she could hear them about, and she picked up her pace to almost a trot- which was embarrassing to see that Sherlock only had to stretch his legs a little more and walk a bit faster- hoping to still get to see a good chunk of the concert that had started some forty minutes earlier. Hustling around a graceful corner, Molly caught the end of the conductor's introduction to his next piece and Molly felt a thrill as the crowd went wild.

Oh! She loved it! The atmosphere! The costuming! The colors-

"You said this was an orchestral concert?" Sherlock's voice startled her out of her excited musings.

She saw the ticket taker up ahead and grinned uncontrollably. "Yes, but he makes everything a lot more enjoyable. I know you're a master violinist of unquestionable skill"- he snorted at that- "but most of these pieces are too dry if played traditionally."

"So he's a contemporary maestro?" She watched him closely as the stage by the water came into sight- the lights playing off his pale face, and she had to swallow a laugh at the befuddled look of worry that overcame him. "Nevermind. I see why you like this."

"Want to come with me?" She asked him, already extracting the tickets from her bag. "I have a spare!" He wanted to say 'no'. A blind man could see he wanted to say 'no' before running in the opposite direction, away from the heaving crowd that was cheering at the deep basso and lilting violins that started the opening of _Victory_…with the _Bond Girls _probably.

She wasn't going to force him-

"Why do you have two tickets?" He questioned as the ticket guy turned to face them.

She could not have suppressed the tingling excitement pricking her skin into gooseflesh, brought on by the music that was pumping toward her, if she had tried. "I won them off the radio." She said with a shrug as she worked to keep from twitching to the music- because he'd probably pick on her if she revealed her tendency to dance with reckless abandon as the music flowed over them.

"Your mother was not able to attend?" He was still with her however, not having turned and fled yet- was that a yes?

"Mum's…mum's not well." She said quietly and he darted a look at her. "But they were going to broadcast it to her room via the internet, and she said she'd look for me."

He wanted to ask more, but the ticket taker and his usher friends demanded her attention. "Tickets?"

"Having fun?" She asked breathless while she handed over her tickets and watched as they flashed a light at the golden bits of oak tag that designated their privileged seats.

"Sure." He said without real enthusiasm, before flicking his torch into their faces, blinding her a bit. It was when the beam from his flashlight landed on her companion was his interest finally roused. "Hey, I know you. You're that…aren't you that detective guy? The one that solves those gruesome cases for the cops? Uh…Hols…Howes…"

Molly cringed. Hard.

One of the ushers who had been watching the whole proceeding clicked his fingers, voice growing in delight. "Holmes? Sherlock Holmes! The guy with the hat!"

Sherlock seemed unperturbed by this- which was one of them at least- as he bobbed his head before twitching at the mention of that dreaded article of headwear. "That is my name, and not my hat."

The small throng of workers was growing and Molly felt a little lost in this as a few of them started to ask her six foot detective all sorts of questions.

"Can you really deduce what person's occupation is just by their left thumb?"

"Did you seriously jump off a building to fake your suicide?"

"Just so you could go battle a crime syndicate?"

"How do you do it?"

"You just kinda…connect the dots right?

"Is it really a matter of observing the obvious?"

"Do you get a lot of girls?"

The questions were deteriorating in intelligence faster than she could seriously believe possible of someone asking about Sherlock Holmes. It was all rather problematic as the song was picking up and the crowd energetically clapping along and she wanted to go join them, but was stuck back with these fan girls and one skittish consulting detective who kept shooting her looks she could not understand. Sherlock appeared to be a tad lost himself- he'd only been back within the city that long, and spent most of that time when he wasn't in her lab, held up at 221B Baker street- fighting and reconciling with John- or down at NSY- fighting and reconciling with Lestrade- mucking about with their chaotic system of checks and balances.

His public presence was extremely limited to mere glimpses and flashes- ergo, he was bigger than ever to the ravenous community.

It was overwhelming if she were honest- and she wasn't even the one it was happening too!

As amazing as he was, Sherlock was the very last, on her long list, of unlikely people to become a celebrity- flipping Tugger the morgue janitor, Luke the homeless guy she saw every other Tuesday by the bus stop near St. Bart's, and Anderson from Serious Crimes were listed above the six foot git! The dark horse, the least likely among them all, was a house hold name and she would have freely admitted to still believing in Santa Claus before trusting it was something he, himself, had wanted- to have all of London knowing his name- if Mycroft hadn't let it slip a week after Sherlock took his leap of faith.

His distinctive face had been splattered all over the super market tabloids that she had shamelessly read while waiting in the checkout lines- bought a few of them too…because they were ridiculous and would be funny years down the road.

After everyone healed.

Watching him now, how he almost leaned away from the fracas around him, she still didn't really accept that recognition in this way was what he truly had craved.

"Here!" A camera was shoved suddenly into her startled hands, and Molly fumbled around for a second in panic as she fought to keep from dropping it. "Take our picture!" How rude. Maybe she shouldn't have worked so hard to keep the expensive device from hitting the gravel at her feet, after all.

She looked to Sherlock, who had yet to really say anything- probably traumatized speechless by his adoring fans.

John had said he was never very good at the public relations side of things…absolutely outrageous that...

Sighing, Molly wiggled the camera to assure she had everyone's undivided attention so she only had to do this once. "Say cheese." She said as she lifted it up and focused the digital screen on them, watching the group cluster around one very constipated looking Sherlock- who, if he could have managed it, would probably have physically exploded to avoid this fate- and she snorted as she clicked the button twice. "Alrighty boys. If you don't mind." She thrust the camera into the hands of the nearest worker and gestured impatiently toward the pulsing crowd as Rieu led his quartet of string beauties to _Victory_ with his orchestra as formidable backup.

Sherlock had been quiet through the entire proceeding- outside of confirming who he was- and had even signed a shirt, two cell phones, and one concert program for his groupies before they were being escorted into the mayhem before the stage.

Molly, despite her best efforts, was concerned about her prickly escort, who never allowed people to assume, demand, or take things from him. "Are you okay?" She had to practically walk on tip toes to make sure her voice reached his ears as they breached the tail end of the dancing audience.

Sherlock's eyes were darting everywhere, his face pensive as he dipped an ear to properly hear her. "Yes." He lied, neck tense with straining muscle.

It must have been from knowing him as long as she did that she knew he was lying. "You don't have to stay, Sherlock. I'll be fine- I'll even call a cab once this is over."

"No." He snapped down at her and she eased off, unsure what to do. It was unlike him- well it used to be- to be so self-sacrificing for another. Lord help her if she pointed that out to him though.

He'd probably start foaming at the mouth and seizing.

That was another thing John- and Lestrade- had mentioned about their brilliant friend. Sherlock was always mercurial in temperament, his moods susceptible to extremes conditional to any stimuli- people, conversations, textures, food, cabs, colors, dust- but since coming home, he was even more unpredictable. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was like normal Sherlock on super strength grumpy pills. He'd close up quickly, lose his temper easier- this wasn't really extraordinary, just irritating. He was always prone to hounding things from people, but now he fairly haunted a person if he felt information was being withheld. John had told her just last week how Sherlock about had a cow over a slight variation in the doctor's schedule at work and how it had taken some thirty minutes to plug up his verbose verbal vomiting.

He was more wary, more suspicious, more possessive.

He was also more likely to show attachment- she had watched him track both Lestrade and John that evening depending on which one was with him or across the room- and more prone to express sentiment. The desire to have someone with him at the end of the day- he did this by keeping close to John, as if worried the shorter man might disappear.

The guy had been alone for too long. She saw how the solitude ate at him when he first reappeared, she recognized that forlorn look to him in the photos and super market rags, and she could even see it from time to time when he wasn't immediately flanked by John, of even Lestrade. It was strange. He always seemed the sort to enjoy his private time, to not care about 'friends'.

Probably had a little too much of it recently, the poor thing.

The jiving crowd was also a problem she hadn't foreseen- granted Sherlock insisted on staying with her- in that he couldn't shut himself off and she watched as he was rapidly becoming over stimulated, walking closer to her, back straightened and tight. Eyes constantly moving even if his face never strayed from the path before them.

Why was he doing this to himself?

Their seats were at the very front- right next to the large, astonishingly vacant dance floor- and were as close to the stage as they could possibly be. It was fantastic that nobody had slunk in and stolen her seats, and it was pure luck that the audience was standing room only for the most part as it would have been highly embarrassing had they walked up in front of sitting Queen and country. It was plain as damn day that her pal hated having hundreds of people at his back, but outside of whipping around leaving, there was not a whole lot she could do for him- which sucked, because if he didn't loosen up, she wouldn't be able to enjoy her concert in good conscience, and it wasn't like she could magically make the entire audience turn around and twiddle their thumbs politely for the duration of the performance.

She checked her watch and then titled her ticket stub to see how much time they had left in the concert. She had missed the first hour and cringed as she thought about all the music she had not gotten to experience. There was an hour and some change left to go, but…she peeped up at her stone faced Sherlock, who was eyeballing the glitzy makeshift stage and the '_Bond_' girls with considerable distrust…Molly didn't think she'd be able to stay the whole time.

Sherlock deliberately shucked his coat off and stared around them at the celebrating masses and Molly flashed him an encouraging smile. "He's really good." She told him loudly, gradually extracting the Belstaff from his fingers and folding it up nicely on the vacant seat beside her- least they weren't the only potential no shows- where she dumped her bag and light jacket.

Despite how uncomfortable he was, the music was rhythmic and pulsing with such life that she soon followed suit with her surrounding neighbors and started to clap along, even mimicking the arm movements of a group of older ladies to her left after they riotously encouraged her to do so.

Sherlock remained unmoved and frowny the entire time- even going so far as to scowl some more just to keep people from having too much of a good time within his personal space. Molly took to accidently bumping him every so often- just to show him that he wasn't an island in this personal Hell of his.

Crabby old man that he was.

_Victory_ finally came rolling to an end and Rieu steamrolled right into another piece she was completely unfamiliar with but could identify as some sort of polka music.

It was fun. She was having fun.

Now if only she could get Captain Fun Suck to pull the stick out of his rear, she'd be able to have a blast.

The current song ended with a bang, and she started, stumbling back and stepped on Sherlock's foot. "Oopsie, sorry!" She mouthed at him after she turned, noticing him staring down at her in mild annoyance. As Rieu started to speak, weaving a story that would lead into his next piece, Molly spun her attention fully on her pissy companion. "C'mon Sherlock, smile!" Which he did…and she winced. Hard. "Stop that!"

"You just said to smile." His deep voice managed to be caught by her ears with no trouble.

"Yeah, a real smile! You looked like a serial killer!" People were starting to stare and she ducked her head. "Look, you seriously do not have to stay- its fine!"

He rolled his eyes and fairly growled. "Molly-"

"Unless you plan to ask me to dance- which you won't- there's no sense in you being miserable here." She hissed at him. "You're unhappy, even the bloke in the back row and can see how mopey you are."

"I'm not _mopey_." He sneered- it was her turn to roll her eyes.

"Cranky then?"

"I'm not cranky!" He snapped, and she threw her hands up. "Do you want me to leave?"

She opened her mouth to say 'yes' just because that seemed like the thing to say, until what he asked caught up with her. "N-no." He raised a snooty eyebrow, not believing her. "No, I don't want you to leave." She barked angrily.

"Well what do you want?" Sherlock was rigid next to her and Molly cast about, furiously thinking, and ignored the curious sets of eyes watching them.

Stupid, amazing, front row seats.

"Sherlock-" She said loudly, just as Rieu stopped speaking and set up for the next piece, allowing her voice to carry obnoxiously over the heads of hundreds of people. Highly embarrassed, Molly ducked down, wishing she could slink off somewhere alone. How awkward…

To her mortification, Sherlock started snickering loudly beside her, the rich sound drawing even more attention.

They were going to get kicked out- she was going to be punted from an orchestra concert for being too rowdy- who does that?

"Shut up!" She hissed at him, slowly sitting down and wishing she could hide better from the half dozen eyes that kept flashing in their direction. Oh, my, God, even a section of the first violins was looking at them! "_Please! Sherlock,_ _shut up_!"

Finally, _finally_, the next piece started up and their spotlight dimmed as the orchestra recast its next encompassing spell over the masses. Molly was terribly self-conscious at this point, refusing to jump in with her dancing neighbors, or scuttling out to the side where a conga line was snaking its way passed the front row seats onto the expansive dance floor.

Oh, this was disaster!

She should have taken his presence as the sign it was and just gone home. Or told him to bugger off, because as much as she loved him, she wasn't immune to the humiliation he liked to help heap onto her shoulders. He did it before he left and he did after he came back.

Nothing changed- nothing would ever change!

Another song came and went, and Molly kept meekly to her seat even as Sherlock stood next to her, observing the idiocy that he no doubt thought it was swirling about them in spectacular fashion.

"Aren't you going to join them?" He finally demanded of her, visibly miffed as the rows started to sway back in forth in unison; Sherlock's neighboring concert goer was swinging dangerously close to his shoulder despite his continued refusal to allow such gaiety that close to his person. He was glaring extra hard- for all the good it was doing him he could have been a chair himself.

Molly sighed as she stood, recognizing a lost fight long after the fact- at least she noticed this time instead of plowing on ahead in misguided, naïve hope. "I'm a little tired actually." At his curious look, she expounded. "We can go." She pitched her voice, not caring if he heard her over the hundreds of voices singing along to whatever song this was.

She wished she the opportunity to know.

She was handing him his jacket- ignoring his raised eyebrows- as the song finally came to a close. The audience bursting into hysterical applause and Rieu gestured grandly to his orchestra several times before turning to address the hundreds gathered there that evening.

"Don't you want to stay?" Sherlock leaned down to speak to her, and Molly fought the shiver that worked its way up her spine- and the tingles in her ear from where his voice caressed her skin.

Jesus, it wasn't fair that he still held this power over her. "No, it's okay. I'm a bit tired and I know you want to go home." Or just plain leave. He paused, still bent by her temple as things calmed down around them. Many taking their seats- all taking their seats actually- shit! "Oh, Sherlock we need to sit down!" She whispered frantically, already feeling the thousands of eyes pressing into her side, neck, and face. Grabbing at his sleeve, Molly made to sit. "Sherlock-"

"Dance with me."

What? "I…"

What...?

Her mind wiped itself blank, body heating up as the pressure of having hundreds of people watching their every move, because of course they were the only two morons still standing at the front of the sodding performance! His hand twisted around her arm and pulled her up from her half crouch, and Molly darted her eyes wildly about. "Sh-_Sherlock!_"

"Dance with me." He said again, tugging her away from her seat after dumping his coat and her belongings onto the chairs.

"We- you- Sherlock, we _can't_!" She said in a strained, small voice, anxiously worried they were distracting people from the show.

"Says who?" Sherlock asked calmly- always so flipping composed, the tosser!

Molly felt like she was wading through mud as Sherlock pulled her to the very center of the spacious dance floor, before some thousand people, and set about pulling her close. "I- I... I can't do this!" She told him, horrified.

"Too late for that. Put your hand on my shoulder." He directed as he gathered up her other limp hand in a self-assured grip.

"Sherlock." She breathed, heart thudding so hard, he could probably feel it through his shirt. "Sherlock I _can't dance_! I don't know _how_-"

"I _can_. Just follow my lead." His steel blue eyes were watching her, studying her every move. "I've got you."

Rieu- he must have seen them, there's no way he could have missed the two of them standing just feet from his prominent place as conductor- smiled encouragingly at her, and she wished the whole place would disappear into a sink hole so she wasn't so exposed. Just then, he raised his hand and a guitar delicately picked out a familiar chorus to a song she knew, but couldn't immediately name.

Her eyes met Sherlock's as she waited nervously to see what he would do. What was he waiting for? The music had already started-

"Keep your eyes on me, Molly." The rich timbre of his voice touched her, and just like that, they were moving. Twisting away with the gentle chords of a tune she still couldn't accurately identify.

The music started to swell as more and more instruments joined, and Molly felt a giddy laugh build as Sherlock expertly waltzed them across the dance floor, more than making up and covering for her clumsy missteps- she hadn't waltzed for real since secondary school so this was an auspicious moment in her life because there were a gazillion people watching them and she had yet to face plant horribly. "I didn't know you could dance." She said softly as she gazed openly into intense steel blues.

"One of my more useless talents." He returned mildly, honeyed baritone soothing her ruffled feathers. "We're going to turn on three- one, two, three-" And he pulled them gracefully about, swinging her out by one arm and towing her back in before her mind could catch up and thwart her startled moves. She could pass for at least a seasoned newbie at this rate, with him as her partner. Their audience must have agreed with her, because the applause had her ducking her chin in embarrassment.

Sherlock kept them moving at a pace that remained true to the delicate notes of the piece, but didn't weigh them down. His warm hands squeezing her fingers in tandem with the notes being pulled from the dozens of strings behind them and she gradually relaxed in his care, confident that he wouldn't let her make a huge fool of herself before the dozens of faces avidly watching them. "You're really good at this." She adjusted her death grip on his upper arm, just under the rounded muscle of his shoulder- where she could reach comfortably without locking her elbow- and gave his bicep a gentle pinch of her own.

"What am I not good at?" He arched and aristocratic brow at her, making her snort- did insomnia count as a failure? "Turning on three- one, two, three-" Once again he pivoted them elegantly around, never breaking their smooth pattern. This time however, instead of flinging her graciously back out with one hand, he hauled her tighter against him. "You're doing exceedingly well for someone who supposedly can't dance."

She grinned uncertainly at him, suddenly horribly nervous as she remembered there was a huge audience inspecting their every move and that she was all but mashed up against this arresting man- who she had also been at least half in love with for over four years. "We're the only two people dancing." She pointed out to him as a blooming bout of stage fright started to grow within her- or at least readmitted its existence to the forefront of her mind.

She was scared of public speaking- let alone public dancing!

"Keep your eyes on me, Molly, dear." Sherlock said, adjusting his large hand around hers and pulling it quickly in between them to press a kiss to her knuckles.

This effectively killed all thoughts, all concerns, all feeling in her body except for her hand- which was tingling something fierce. It was a very good thing Sherlock had control of this little operation, or she'd be meeting the floor.

What just happened..?

The orchestra picked up with the lilting call of a soprano violinist that rose beautifully above the rest of its fellow strings, winds, choir, and percussions and in a passing turn, Molly saw it was André Rieu himself pulling the sweet notes from his loyal instrument.

Sherlock huffed in amusement after giving her the heads up on their upcoming turn. The second they made it safely through, Molly tilted her head shyly at him. "What?"

"He's extending the piece, repeating back." Sherlock explained as he allowed the pressing crescendo to egg their pattern forward. "He's prolonging this dance for us." It took a few steps for this news to really sink in.

Then Molly's jaw started to drop.

André Rieu was…

…playing for them?

"What?" Sherlock asked, and Molly felt the comforting pressure of his hand on her lower back spread-out, holding her securely as he moved them back across the dance floor.

"This is just surreal." She told him, adjusting her hand on his arm to slip a little further up his shoulder. "André Rieu is playing this beautiful piece, live, that I'm getting to dance too with a man that I- with you." She bit out quickly- freaked that she had almost spilled the beans. "You terrific dancer, you!" God, he needed to know that little smidgen of information about as much as she wanted to tell him about it- not at all. Judging by the way his sharp eyes started to narrow, he had noticed her slip- of course he would! It was only the two of them out there!

There had been a time when he wouldn't have bothered even reacting to her fumbles around him, to her pitiful attempts to ask him out. Whatever happened to that Sherlock, that Sherlock who brushed her aside, ignored her, or heckled her into doing his bidding, she could safely assume perished alongside Jim on the roof of her building all those months ago, leaving behind a gentler person less inclined to punt her feelings into the brick walls scattered about London.

That did not mean he wanted to find out about how she craved more from him than he would willingly want to give.

It was potentially a huge disaster for their friendship if she told him- a friendship that just started to actually become real as opposed to whatever it was before another forced his hand.

Sherlock Holmes, a man not at all accustomed to acknowledging sentiment, feelings…

Love.

He might never be ready to hear such things expressed at him. He may never want that 'burden'.

It broke her heart some two years ago when she realized that, if he could love- if he _wanted_ to love actually…not if he _could _love- he wouldn't choose someone like her. The hopeful Forensic Pathologist who was basically a rug.

A girl too simple, too inexperienced…

Too dull.

She didn't think she was any of those things but compared to, say, a woman like Irene Adler, Molly Hooper was about as intriguing as gray paint. It had been a painful lesson she had to learn, but if she had to choose between loving him and losing him, or being his friend and keeping him, it was a no brainer.

She would always be his friend, whether he loved her or another.

Their moment was coming to an end, the music slowing at the close and Sherlock, because he knew what the hell he was doing and how to do it right despite her lack of skill in this, spun her smoothly into an arching dip with the dying harmony. The spell lingered for mere fractions of a second into the settling silence, and she held her breath as she met his crackling steely blues that looked so much darker that evening, as he bent over her.

The audience exploded.

Flushed from dancing so closely with him, Molly closed her eyes, less he see more than she was comfortable showing- because he could see everything if she weren't careful. He held her like that for moment longer before pulling her unhurriedly up to stand, and Molly, opening her eyes, smiled bashfully at the hundreds of people grinning, whistling, and clapping - not just for the orchestra, but her and Sherlock.

It was both exhilarating, and pleasantly unexpected. She turned around quickly, flashing an easily composed Sherlock a hesitant smile, and faced André Rieu and his orchestra, applauding the man who made such beautiful work come alive. He was gesturing grandly to his players, and bowing himself, but before it was all said and done, he extended a hand to her and Sherlock, giving up part of the credit for the performance to the two people gutsy enough to take on a piece solo.

Molly felt Sherlock deserved that credit.

He was standing there, hands clasped at ease in front of him as he politely took in the activity around him. Of course, Sherlock Holmes would be the man to stand in the middle of ordered chaos and smile benignly as if knowing things no one else did.

Typical Sherlock.

Tipping her head back toward their seats- she was more than ready to be out of the spot light, no matter how minor it was- she blinked as Sherlock extended an arm in a shockingly rare display of manners that she knew he possessed- she'd watched him pull them out of the hat on occasion, usually to help schmooze folks into giving him what he wanted.

What was going on with him tonight? First dancing, now this.

She slipped her hand up and placed her fingers lightly in the crook of his elbow and almost jerked in surprise when he settled his other, larger hand on top of hers. Molly, muddled, allowed herself to be escorted by Sherlock back to their chairs, face aflame from all the ladies giving her 'the look'.

It was hard to forget that theirs was a performance of the moment, that Sherlock was just giving her the opportunity to play- she had all but yelled at him about asking her dance first, after all.

She just never thought he would ever take her up on the passing suggestion.

That also did not explain his knuckle kiss- she didn't know what could elucidate that with him as he was a fantastic actor and the truth might just suck a bit too much.

At their seats, Molly dipped to grab their things out the way and moved to sit down alongside a quiet Sherlock.

Who had yet to release her fingers out from under his.

Her heart was pounding as her hand and arm fluctuated between being so hot- how can he not feel that?- to so hot, it felt cold- seriously, can he not feel that? She didn't know what this was outside the obvious- well…if this had been a date with a normal human being, she would maybe have been able to translate this into affection- hand holding. But this wasn't a date- this wasn't even a planned event! He had just popped up like a ghost and she offered him her spare ticket- but judging by his fan club back at the gate however, there was an huge probability of him not even needing a ticket to begin with if he signed a few more autographs and actually smiled in a picture or two.

She had missed whatever it was the Rieu had been speaking about as his orchestra set about building for the next song- that she was immediately able to label as _Ave Maria_. A quick flash of eyes to the stage, and she recognized the pretty, blonde woman with the voice of an angel waiting for her cue to begin breaking hearts.

Normally, she would have been ecstatic as she loved this song to bits- it was one of her staunchly Catholic mum's favorites- but right now, her hand was clasped in the grip of her long time- of Sherlock. Peeping up at him as he watched the uplifting performance with an air of someone knowing exactly what sort of mechanics went into such performances, Molly fretted over what to do next.

Pretend he wasn't holding her hand? Draw attention to it?

Cry?

That last suggestion was so stupid it actually held appeal.

Sherlock shifted his grip, and Molly's whole world narrowed to the sensation of his warm fingers threading through her own numb ones.

Sweet Jesus, what was going _on_? What was she meant to _do_? This was absurd! She wasn't an awkward teenager anymore! Or…well…she wasn't a teenager at least. This should not be messing with her like it was- Sherlock _should_ _not_ have this sort of power over her!

His fingers were still moving, gently pushing hers apart to insert his own, and Molly unconsciously started to help him out, before realizing what she was doing- then she did it deliberately.

Ugh! Grow up, Hooper! He's just a guy! A guy holding your hand!

And if he wanted to play the game, then fine, she'd play the game.

And pray he didn't wig out on her in the process because Sherlock never followed the rules.

The fact that her hand was still lodged in the crook his arm was to her advantage- or so every movie she had ever watched on _Hallmark _and _Lifetime_ had pointed it out to be one. Her arm wasn't at an uncomfortable angle, but if she just shifted a little to the right- bingo!

Taking a calming breath, Molly bit the bullet and dropped her temple to lean against the thick part of Sherlock's shoulder, ignoring for all she was worth how her nerves made her knees twitch and heart race. He could push her away still- he was sporadic enough that such a maneuver wouldn't even surprise her- but she prayed…

She prayed he'd want to stay.

If Sherlock reacted, she would have to of been staring him dead on in the face while actively looking for a sign of discomfort, because he didn't stiffen, he didn't jolt from her added contact or the way she snuffled at his shoulder.

He just rubbed his thumb over her knuckles in such a soothing gesture she was slowly being lulled by it.

In the fading warmth of the early fall evening, the air filled with the crystalline voice of an angel singing a deceptively "age old" hymn that floated and soared on high to the heavens, Molly felt her world tilt on axis and pause, holding just her and Sherlock in a time and space they had never before visited. Where Sherlock Holmes asked her to dance and held her hand…kissed her knuckles…and where she snuggled up close and wished for things never before believed to be possible.

Whatever spell they had fallen under, whatever it was that had pushed Sherlock to bestow his favor, to express sentiment she was loath to let it end.

He'd been different since coming home but this was new behavior. It was precious.

It was so out of character she knew she was living on the clock- the moment when his natural jerkwad setting would override these impulses.

Just a matter of time…

His big hand splayed slowly out from between her fingers, before curling inward, dragging his nails oh, so lightly over the skin of her hand, promptly setting off a flash of gooseflesh up her arm and down her back to her thighs.

Oh, my…

A violin's lilting voice rose amongst the orchestra and swept across the park, echoing off the lake and Molly could never have imagined such a scene like this on her own. There was more energy felt, and heard, that words would never be able to accurately capture and hold. She would never be able to describe the tangible romance of this moment, and that was okay.

She would never mind cherishing this memory, never have issue recalling what it meant to have him by her side like this, with the possibility of _more_ so within reach.

As the sparkling voice slowly died out, the magical silence bestowed upon the audience held for nearly three heartbeats before thunderous applause erupted around them, people surging to their feet to give a standing ovation to the songstress on stage that lasted for several minutes.

Sherlock did not stop rubbing his hand along her skin.

She could so easily get used to this…

The concert meandered on, through several more waltz, dances, and one playful rendition of _Spanish Eyes,_ before sweeping into _Con Te Partiro_- hands down on of her favorites.

She snuggled in closer to him, and closed her eyes and basked in the feeling of him shifting to accept her intrusion with an arm around her shoulders and her hand still firmly held captive in his own.

Oh, God, please let this not be a dream…

Please don't let her wake up, hung over, in the ladies room at Lestrade's party…

Please, please, _please_…

The concert came to a close, and Molly was loath to step back to the reality where this didn't exist and was most certainly, not tolerated in any of its sentimental crockery.

So imagine her surprise when as she went to let him go and collect her coat and purse, he tugged her hand to his mouth once more to place another warm kiss upon her knuckles before letting her go. Eyes wide, she had to blink a few times up into steel blues that glimmered in the warm lantern light and had to shake herself out of her stupor when he nudged her with her jacket.

Jacket on, purse shouldered, she looked at him to lead the way through the masses converging on the pathway out of the park, and he had stuffed his hands into his pockets and was just short of glaring at people who wandered into his self-proclaimed territory.

_There_ was the big ol' grump she recognized.

People swarmed around her, some winking at her- how _embarrassing_- and she slipped closer to his side to keep from being prematurely separated. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at her and she offered him just a simple smile- one without any sort of expectation because Heaven knew what sort of junk he'd sleuth from it and fling back in her face later on.

She wouldn't be able to stomach that, wouldn't dare herself the chance of being hurt like that.

This concert, their dance, and everything else was just for that night- this one moment, this one time and how she would savor this- and she shored up her edges to make sure nothing seeped out that hinted of hope.

It would hurt too much if she allowed herself to want after this because he was Sherlock and Sherlock didn't tolerate this sort of ridiculousness.

She worked hard to not sigh, to not be sad.

They were well passed the park entrance and the shoulder to shoulder traffic of the crowd when he offered his arm up suddenly at the stoplight as they waited for it to change so they could cross.

And Molly, for the first real time since he took a leap of faith, allowed herself to hope.

* * *

><p>AN- I'm so still here. For the record, I've <span><em><strong>NOT NOT NOT<strong>_ abandoned **How Lucky You Are**...it's just giving me one hell of a middle finger across a gorge I am struggling to span. Soon...seriously. Soon.


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